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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25695841">Cherry Waves</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/haoskojihoda/pseuds/haoskojihoda'>haoskojihoda</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Corto Maltese (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(for the drug use part but i swear it's nothing serious), Corto is 17 in this and Rasputin is 20 as per canon, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Bigotry, Slow Burn, emetophobia warning, these are just to cover Rasputin being himself really, these repressed idiots will be the death of me, this is essentially a roadtrip fic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:46:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>18,122</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25695841</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/haoskojihoda/pseuds/haoskojihoda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Rasputin has the impulse control of a toddler and a sensitive stomach that fits one, Corto curses the day he met Jack London and they're traveling on a steamer that's on the brink of mutiny. And they've barely left the port.</p>
<p>Or,</p>
<p>It's 1905. and a sailor and a deserter make their way towards King Solomon's mines and infamy - fic directly expands upon the ending of the Early Days volume and follows the itinerary from the Momoirs volume, while making it 100% more queer and dramatic</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Corto Maltese/Rasputin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The amount of historical research that went into this feels both too little and too much and I apologize for any inaccuracies spotted! Not a native English speaker, nor do I speak Spanish or Russian so on God if something is horribly wrong please,,, yell at me. For simplicity's sake Corto is referred to as The Spaniard as it is in some volumes and the novels, but you can imagine the language spoken is English (any language shifts are noted in the text itself). Not beta'd. </p>
<p>Without further ado... Enter Rasputin!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span><em>March 13th, a few miles away from Port of Tanggu, Tianjin</em> </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rasputin clutched onto the railing and promptly emptied his stomach into the Bohai Sea.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He fought to keep down any remaining substance, retching as he breathed in more of the damnable salty air he swore he'd never get used to. This time, at least, he kept the tears out of his eyes, a side effect of spending most of his time on deck and consuming copious amounts of vodka ever since they'd left port. There hadn't been many opportunities at Liaoyang or Mukden to get a decent drink, not on his measly pay. If anyone asked, the lack of alcohol was at least half the reason he had deserted. The other half seemed less and less important to him with each passing hour on this wretched steam prison.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>SS Amara, property of the Indo-China Steam Navigation company, was by all means a perfectly fine cargo steamer, or at least Corto had told him so before they had boarded it. Now, bent half over her edge and watching his dinner float away in the blackened sea water, he was certain Corto just hated him. The boy he'd met less than a week ago was a devil scorned, obviously set on this earth to punish him personally for some sin he wasn't even aware he'd committed. What other reason would one person have for pulling such a cruel prank on a friend?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rasputin pulled back with all the grace of someone who had just vomited for the third time that day, and steeled himself on the railing, squinting at the horizon. At night, it seemed impossibly vast, no light illuminating the empty line between the cold winter sea and a starless sky. Were he Corto, who, he had learned, was a bit of a sentimental fool, he'd probably compare the blackness of the horizon to a woman's eyes, or some such nonsense. Rasputin had known women, as most soldiers did, from behind closed doors in foreign brothels which smelled of sickly sweetness and disappointing orgasms. Vasily had dragged him enough times into the eager embraces of Chinese prostitutes for him to know women deserved not an ounce of sentimentality from men like Corto. Still, the blackness unsettled him and he hung his head back down to press it onto the cool metal. The spiteful ship decided to rock at that moment and he hit his head against the steel rail.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Rasputin, communing with the ship at this hour? You'll make the other steamers jealous.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Corto's droll words snapped him out of his musings and he straightened up, embarrassed at being caught unaware by the other man. Rasputin turned to face him, shame quickly morphing into annoyance, and he glared at him, not even deigning him with a response. Corto's expression of slight amusement didn't change as he pulled out a cigarette from his coat and lit it up. Rasputin followed his hand as it brought the smoke to his lips, a strange thrill going through him as he watched the sailor take a slow drag and exhale. He'd never met a man who made lighting up a cigarette look more striking, like a move from a private play Corto put on for himself only, and Rasputin could only admire from the outside. He thought he'd make any tobacco company rich if only he'd let them use his likeness for advertising. Corto nodded at him and Rasputin drew closer to pluck a cigarette from his pack, before deciding to just steal the one in the boy's mouth.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He tasted bile on his tongue and the cigarette did nothing to make him forget it. The bitterness reminded him of something Corto had told him before they had boarded this ship. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘The name Amara’</span>
  </em>
  <span> he had said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘means unfading or eternal in Greek, which is probably what the builders in Glasgow were hoping for before they had sold it off to the ICSNC.’</span>
  </em>
  <span> The way he had said it struck Rasputin as odd, but he had chalked it up to his friend being peculiar. </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘The Greeks, however, aren't the only who've laid claim to it. In Italian,’</span>
  </em>
  <span> his eyes had shone, </span>
  <em>
    <span>’it means bitter.’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rasputin had questioned his choice of transport then, fearing he had made a terrible mistake in choosing a partner in crime with such morbid taste in symbolism. Corto had laughed, his frame shaking with mirth, and Rasputin had felt more satisfied in that moment than during his entire service in the siberian rifle regiment. It was a laugh he'd come to appreciate in the coming days, a reward Corto rarely gave out and Rasputin greedily latched on to. After calming down, his companion had leveled him with an excited look and shared the last meaning, with roots in West Africa. Grace. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Corto's surprisingly large hand waving in front of his face brought him back from his musings, just in time to see his friend point at one of the crew's cabins which still had its lights on. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That's the cook's cabin. Do you suppose they're preparing tomorrow's meals at this hour?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rasputin tried deciphering this strange statement, wondering why Corto was bothering with the state of the ship's kitchen of all things. He'd mingled with the ship's staff himself, although only the kind that had money on hand he could win off of them at cards. He briefly entertained the idea that the cook was poisoning his food and that Corto was in on it, but quickly dismissed the thought. His new companion may be a tricky bastard, but he wasn't his sort. He wasn't in the business of hurting people.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Why would I care what the kitchen staff is doing?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Corto shook his head, as if expecting his attitude, and threw his spent cigarette overboard.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Really, Rasputin, your keen eyes haven't noticed this crew's mood yet? Maybe I was wrong to bring you along.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Russian’s mind briefly struggled to decide on a response, caught between the ‘keen eyes’ compliment and Corto's disapproving words. As always, his ego won out and he bristled. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you saying you idiot, of course I've noticed! I'm not some blind dimwit,” he said, waving a threatening fist for emphasis, “if you ever talk like that again, I might just kill you!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Corto lazily made a motion to shush him, staring at him with knowing eyes. How Rasputin hated the Spaniard’s eyes, which were never quite looking at you as you are, more fixated on some faraway lands, yet always knowing. He wasn't used to this level of perverse understanding Corto so effortlessly possessed when it came to him. The military, for all its numerous flaws, at least offered complete indifference when it came to a single soldier. Oh, he'd known enough naive men his age who'd joined dreaming of coming from the war with shiny medals and tales of patriotic glory. Rasputin spat on those fools. There was no glory in dying in a foreign land, penniless because they won't even pay for your blood. He'd known from the start he was a soldier in name only, and that he'd shed that mantle at the first chance he got.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, alright, don't shout it to the whole ship.” Corto had an easy smile on his face and Rasputin decided he hated him in that moment. He was worse than any captain he'd had in the army. At least Rasputin hadn't respected those. Hadn't felt a desperate need to please them. And worst of all, Corto Maltese was aware of all of this. Blast him to hell!</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It's only a little friendly advice, guapo. I know you've been ripping them off since we've boarded, and while I personally don't care, we've a great many days ahead of us on this ship.” Corto said it with little care, as he did most things, but the threat was clear, as was the fact Corto wouldn't involve himself any more than some ‘friendly advice’. Rasputin understood him perfectly, even if it irked him for some reason. He once again thought of Vasily, who'd shot a man to protect him after he'd disobeyed, and felt a pang of loneliness. The thought of being on his own finally, after months of forced cohabitation in his regiment, should have delighted him, yet it only made him sick. He mumbled a spiteful curse at the </span>
  <em>
    <span>stranger</span>
  </em>
  <span> looking at him with those vacant eyes, and moved back towards the railing, his stomach twisting painfully.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rasputin knew he had no right to be angry, but dammit, he deserved more than condescending advice from a vagabond brat who'd never even killed a man before, let alone for someone else. Hadn't he earned Corto's loyalty anyway, with his selfless act of helping that stuffy American man? Hadn't he proven himself as the perfect partner in crime? Rasputin’s kind was a necessity in today's world and he held a sense of pride in living as he did. He wasn't just a nameless nobody. He'd have half a mind to beat it into Corto to make him never forget it. But his stomach had other plans, turning inside out to the tune of Amara’s sailings.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He had barely heard the </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘are you alright?’</span>
  </em>
  <span> before he was once again vomiting overboard, or trying to anyway, nothing but thick fluid coming up. A comforting yet alien hand had settled on his shoulder, grounding him as he rode out the nausea. Once it was over, he shrugged off the invasive gesture, driving himself up as straight as he could to maintain some dignity. He wouldn't look at Corto, who had drawn so impossibly close in the short amount of time, and was now staring at him. The boy simply took out a handkerchief and handed it to him, unaffected. Rasputin took it begrudgingly and wiped the remaining bile from his mouth, thinking spitefully about vomiting onto the ship's deck next time. His shoulder still burned from the touch.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Cigarette?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Russian snatched it as quickly as it was offered, trying to keep his hands from shaking too much. If Corto noticed, he didn't mention it. They smoked in silence until Rasputin had calmed down enough to follow Corto to their cabin. That night, he slept well.</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>March 14th, somewhere in the Yellow Sea, traveling at 15 knots, en route to Shanghai </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>‘You've sailed in these waters before?’</span>
  </em>
  <span> The Russian had asked him after lunch, when they were holed up in their tiny cabin, away from the rest of the rather hostile crew. Corto had considered lying and saying no, but figured his unfortunate companion wouldn't accept it. So here they were now, Rasputin sitting cross-legged on his bed and occasionally emoting while Corto told him of his involvement in the Boxer rebellion.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I still don't understand why the Chinese had just left their destroyers docked after the initial attack? The allied forces were as good as sitting ducks in the bay!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why, Rasputin, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were delighted by the idea of an allied defeat!” Corto chided, enjoying the frown lines that formed immediately on the other's face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don't speak nonsense, idiot. You know I've got no love for my country, much less its pretend allies! But you cannot say you would not have taken the chance.” He emphasized the ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>taking’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>by punching his palm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You are right, of course. But if they had shot at us, I might not have lived to tell the tale.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Would have served you right for enlisting like a fool.” Corto could sense real bitterness in those words, most likely there because Rasputin had never had a choice in his own conscription.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe so.” He conceded easily, not seeing a point in agitating the other man further. “I was taken along when the Allies stormed the Northwest Fort. It didn't take long after that for the rest to fall. You've seen them, before we boarded.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There wasn't much left to see, Corto. They are nothing but rubble now, much like the Boxers themselves, haw haw haw!” Rasputin laughed at his own joke, clearly thinking it hilarious. Those piles of ‘rubble’ were once overflowing with Chinese blood, bodies piling up under the smoky haze of superior artillery. Corto struggled to find the humor, and settled for staring at the madman until he calmed down.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He'd been a month away from his 14th birthday then, a mere cabin boy, and at the time, he truly hadn't grasped the enormity of war. When the sailors at the docks of his hometown had first mentioned a new joint campaign, for which British ships were recruiting, he had eagerly jumped at the chance. It has seemed then like his father's drunken stories were finally within his reach. Once boarded, most of the excitement had disappeared. The actual work was relentless, his crewmates nothing like the rambling sailors of his childhood, and none of them in the least interested in anything beyond the upcoming war. It was all the men talked about, thought about, dreamt about. He'd felt stifled by their collective wonder even before he'd witnessed it firsthand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hadn't lied to Rasputin when he told him he was taken along on the ground assault. He'd been there when the powder magazine had exploded, creating panic amongst the Chinese soldiers. Now, his dreams sometimes smelled of powder and sizzling flesh. But, as much of the story, he kept that private. Rasputin wouldn't care for it anyway. Nor would he listen to Corto's words if he chose to tell him about the British and Italian soldiers he'd seen then, more animal than man, ripping through the enemy with practiced ease until the fort fell. And then the next. And the next. Until nothing was standing between them and Beijing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rasputin, visibly annoyed by the fact Corto didn't appreciate his joke, demanded he finish retelling the story quickly. Which suited Corto just fine.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“After Seymour’s expedition failed, we besieged Tientsin. This time, I had stayed on the sidelines tending to-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Boo!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Rasputin.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That was the bloodiest battle of the entire war! And you're telling me you spent it playing nurse?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Corto sighed, resisting the urge to slap some sense into his companion. The man was a lost cause, a complete killer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Now shut up if you want to hear the rest.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Silence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There, I met the most peculiar American woman, going by Hoo Loo at the time. She taught me a bit of Chinese while we worked on the wounded.” Corto thought fondly of the older woman, who had taken him under his wing while her husband was away guiding the Allied forces. She had surprised him by being able to speak both Italian and Spanish, in addition to her native English and the Chinese that she had helped him learn. She had felt like a much needed reprieve from the bloody war, and he had probably even liked her, in a childish sort of way. She was an extraordinary woman.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did you-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No. You're ridiculous.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rasputin's blatant disappointment almost made him laugh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“With heavy losses, the army was forced to delay the efforts and we waited for reinforcements. After that, it was a long march in sweltering heat to Beijing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He could tell his audience was slowly losing patience with the history lesson, so he decided to share some of the more brutal details. Rasputin responded best to violence after all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I once passed two Japanese soldiers nailed to the wall, with their eyes gouged out and their tongues cut off.” That perked him up. The Russian sat up straighter in his bed, a morbid smile on his face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If I had had more time with that bastard Sakai I would've done the same, believe me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I thought we were still pretending you weren't the one who'd killed him,” Corto said, amused at the way Rasputin just blinked slowly as he realized his mistake, clearly at a loss. The boy let his squirm for a bit, then continued his storytelling. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“By the time we had reached the besieged city, one man from my crew was dead from heatstroke and three had fallen ill from native diseases. It was strange. Some of the men had stared at me, and in their eyes I could see envy and hate much stronger than the one they'd had when they were fighting the Chinese. It was the first time I'd felt fear in our campaign.” He could still remember the accusatory looks he'd gotten each time one of their own fell from exhaustion, as if he was personally sucking the life out of them all. He'd felt like he'd been put on trial, a mazikeen exposed for sinful dealings simply for being alive while others died like dogs under the August sun. Sometimes, he still wondered if it was true. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Those men should've been cheering the dying on! Every one of them is one thief less once it's all over and done with!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Rasputin, has anyone ever told you you have a real talent for destroying the mood?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man grinned at him, obviously taking it as a compliment. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Never!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You're quite talented at self delusion too I see.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rasputin scowled at that and made a few overexaggerated vulgar gestures, then waved at him to continue. Not for the first time since they'd met, Corto found the Russian endlessly entertaining. He could easily get used to teasing the other man.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I'm sure you've heard the story of the battle itself. Mine is even less interesting. British forces took the most southern gate, the Sha Wo, and we met little resistance. Then we were wading through the sewers, which is not something I ever want to do again. Never managed to get the smell out of my clothes and I had to wash the uniforms on our sail back home.” Corto shook his head lightly, trying to get the memory out. Rasputin was doubled over, laughing like the image of a wet and dirty cabin boy was the most hilarious thing he'd heard in years. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh I knew you were a hopeless fool, Corto Maltese, but I didn't think it was this bad!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I'm glad this is amusing to you, Rasputin.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Russian just continued snickering, so Corto took a moment to appreciate the dimples that appeared whenever the other man laughed. His companion's face wasn't one anyone would call attractive, but everyday Corto found something new about it to enjoy. He could imagine this man, 10 years from now, still managing to surprise him with the way his brows crease when he's trying to figure out whether someone is lying or not. Or the way his eyes remain icy blue no matter the time of day. Corto reached for a bottle of baijiu he'd managed to grab in Tianjin before they'd left port, and poured himself a drink to stop thinking about pointless things. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rasputin had stopped laughing while Corto was lost in thought, and was now looking at him with a strange expression, which the Spaniard could only guess was irritation. What for, he couldn’t say.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is that it?’’ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That is all, yes.’’ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Give me that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rasputin didn't give him much time to react before he was snatching the alcohol out of his hands and taking a generous shot. He wiped his mouth with a sour look on his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tastes like shit, are you trying to poison me?!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Next time you try to steal my drink, I'll certainly consider it!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rasputin threw the bottle back at him with more force than necessary and Corto caught it with ease. The older man started to pace around the room, agitated, but Corto decided to ignore him in favor of trying the alcohol. It reminded him of whiskey, but with a sharper edge to it, and it warmed him as it slid down his throat. He briefly wished he'd bought more of it, thinking about the cold weather he’d been subject to these past few months. How anyone could live in these climates, he couldn’t say. He silently sent a prayer out to their ship, wishing she’d travel faster. The queen of Sheba was waiting, and with it, his treasure. Rasputin, completely oblivious to his musings, had decided to sit down next to him. Corto took a few more sips from his glass, savoring the taste and making each sip a little longer than the last. He could feel Rasputin fuming nearby, but he did not care. Corto was a lot of things, but a saint was not one of them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you need anything, Rasputin?” he asked after a moment, slowly turning his head to impassively peer at the Russian. Nothing but silence followed as Rasputin shot up and took Corto's wrist, bending it uncomfortably and forcing a painful grunt from the boy. Before he could react, the older man pried his fingers open, exposing the now faded line of scar tissue which cut his palm in two. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Corto tried twisting his hand away but Rasputin was holding it in a steel tight grip, expression on his face unreadable. The struggle lasted only a few moments, because as soon as Rasputin's fingers had traced the length of his scar, Corto's fist connected with his face, knocking the other man off-balance and off the bed. The Russian cried out in pain, clutching his now bleeding nose. Corto watched him mirthlessly, rubbing at the red marks Rasputin's hand had left. He felt like he'd never be able to truly get rid of them and that thought troubled him deeply.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you… Take Me… For an... idiot?!” Rasputin asked through grit teeth, anger accentuating every word. “Maybe I am, the greatest fool on this planet, thinking that you and I had anything in common. Tell me, Corto Maltese… Have you ever killed anyone?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Corto didn't reply and Rasputin didn't even look surprised at the lack of an answer. He grimaced, baring his teeth at the boy, and Corto suddenly felt like he was trapped in a cage with a dangerous animal. A tiny part of him envied how quickly and shamelessly his companion could don the beastly mantle, how deeply Rasputin felt every emotion. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did they even let you hold a gun? Did you actually see anyone die or did you stay in the back, cowering while real men did all the dirty work? You told me your entire story and yet I didn't hear a single real thing in it! If I were those crewmen of yours, I would have killed you and left your body for the vultures to eat! That's how much you're worth. How did it feel to be a damn tourist in a war, Corto?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the end of his rant, Rasputin was breathing harshly, blue eyes blown wide open and accusing. Only halfway through did Corto realize the other man was yelling in Russian. He stood up, and offered his unblemished hand to Rasputin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Calm down, viejo.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rasputin spit out blood onto his boots and then grabbed his hand, violently tugging him forward and tipping Corto off balance, enough to make him fall down half on top of the other man. Corto braced himself on the Russian's heavy coat, cursing the day he'd agreed to take this wild animal with him. Rasputin’s face was too close, it repulsed him, it delighted him, it was too close.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did you get the scar during the fighting?” The guarded hope Corto could hear in Rasputin's voice felt overwhelming. He almost felt like lying on instinct. But he wouldn't let an unhinged murderer pressure him into falsely relating to his insanity. A loaded silence filled the empty space between them. If Rasputin wanted to believe Corto to be the same mad sort as him, he'd be free to do so without involving him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Where I got it is none of your business,” Corto said, not managing to keep the edge out of his voice, “and the next time you pull this, I will kill you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then he was getting up and striding to the door, pointedly ignoring the mad grin on Rasputin's face. When he lit up his cigarette on deck a few moments later, he could swear his scar was pulsing.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hope everyone was on board with a brief history lesson because that's basically what this chapter was! The Boxer Uprising is a horrifying bit of history and the looting that followed it is an offensive atrocity. Sidenote Hoo Loo mentioned here is actually the Chinese name that President Hoover's wife used while they were residing in China at the time, she's a really cool person (for a Republican)! This chapter was also just me trying to make sense of 13 year old Corto going to war hgfdhjfd who allowed this?? Pratt we need to have a word....</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This one's huge! So much time went into squinting into faded out maps of contemporary Shanghai and researching brothels of the time! Warning for Rasputin being misogynistic and overall unpleasant, he's going thru it and channeling it into being a menace. Also, this one's the drug mention chapter so watch out for mentions of opium if such subject matter is uncomfortable. I really hope the relationship progression here is believable!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> March 15th, Shanghai, International Concessions, Jardine’s Lower Wharf </em>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>The moment the ship was docked, Rasputin was running over the ramp and hugging steady ground. The wooden platform underneath his cheek felt blessedly firm and cool, somehow more reassuring than Amara’s cage of steel ever could and not even the rancid smell of fish and coal swirling in the air could part him from this newfound safety. He saw Corto's boots settle next to his head and he wondered, ridiculously, how he could afford such expensive footwear. Surely, wandering sailors didn't get paid more than Russian imperial soldiers? </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Rasputin… Having fun down there?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Rasputin thought about the logistics of spitting on those costly boots from his position. They'd fit him better anyway, he was sure of it. Before he could hatch a plan to steal them when the Spaniard wasn't looking, a spent cigarette butt almost hit him in the eye. He moved out of the way in the last second, cursing loudly. Rasputin looked up at his tormentor, and found that the boy wasn't even looking at him. His head was perfectly framed by the Sun behind him, a great parody of sainthood almost too blinding to look at. Rasputin privately mused that Corto already wore a halo wherever he went, but that it was simply more innocuous than anything you could find in church mosaics. All he needed was an earring. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I will kill you for that!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Of course, Rasputin. Can you do it after we get the gold though?” Corto replied absentmindedly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He still wasn't looking at him, eyes firmly fixed on the row of carriages lined up in the distance. Bastard was already planning on leaving him here! Rasputin pulled himself up, brushing off the dirt from his coat, and turned to look at the city. Western architecture littered the coastline, imposing buildings with various foreign flags crowding Shanghai’s port almost mockingly. It was every bit a colonial fantasy as Corto had described it as. Rasputin was delighted.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Finally, some fucking civilization.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Don't get too excited, Rasputin, the boat departs again in 5 hours…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He could already imagine the money that could be made here. Now to just find a loosely regulated Chinese casino… The money he'd made on the ship was itching to be invested well in his pocket. Gambling wasn't his vice, per se, but he'd come to appreciate it in his teenage years, as it was preferable to the more… violent ways of making money. Not that he was opposed to shaking up a rich snob or two to afford dinner. If all else failed, this city was sure to be full of such foreign prey. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“To a gentleman of luck such as myself, five hours is more than enough!” Rasputin bristled,”and I can see you eyeing those carriages, красавчик, don't think I don't know you have plans of your own!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Corto's laughter seemed to carry for miles down the Whangpoo river. He could hear a disbelieving <em> красавчик? </em>, and then the boy was approaching him and laying his large hands on his shoulders. A tiny part of Rasputin’s brain always went into fight or flight when Corto did this, and he supposed it would always be like that. Corto made him feel small, and Rasputin hated it. Yet he stood there, rooted to the piece of wet wood he was standing on and feeling impossibly warm.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Would you come with me then?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In that moment, as the early spring wind picked up around them, Rasputin felt the absurd impulse to dig his nails into Corto's skin and bury his way under it, carve out a little place of his own so that he may never lose sight of him. How this boy could make a simple invitation feel so sinfully conspiratorial, he couldn't say. But he was inexplicably grateful for Corto's hands on him keeping him balanced and upright. Thoughts of melding his skin with the other's in different ways made him feel lightheaded.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“...Only so I can watch you make a fool of yourself, wherever you're going!” Rasputin said weakly after a brief moment where he fought to get his mouth working again. Corto patted him, seemingly satisfied with his reaction, and gestured for Rasputin to follow. This time, Rasputin fell into step behind him without saying a word. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The ride over to the other side of Shanghai was terribly long and Corto did nothing to shorten it, preferring to stare out of the window and smoke rather than talk. Rasputin resigned himself to doing the same, with occasional quips and observations about the crowds that gathered on the busy streets. He wasn't used to the sheer number of people of varying ethnicities and races, having spent all his life in a quiet Siberian town next to the prison labor camp he was born in. The military was much of the same in that regard. He envied Corto for this too. The ease with which he fit in, slid into whatever role the situation demanded… </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Their carriage stopped just short of the Garden Bridge that connected the concessions, in Whangpoo Road, and Corto told him to wait inside. Rasputin, predictably, didn't. He followed him out into the street and right onto the path of a Japanese squadron. Their unmistakable navy and red uniforms split the crowd in half as they marched, a comical formation midst the regular people passing through. Rasputin’s hand instinctively found his gun. Corto simply waved him down and pointed at the drab building they were standing in front of, which had an American flag swaying to the wind above the main entrance. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I need to send word to Jack London about our progress. Please don't antagonize anyone while I'm inside.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You are not in charge here, Corto Maltese, I'll do whatever I want! Go run to your American friend.” He spit out the words in annoyance. The other man shook his head briefly, as if he were a particularly stubborn child, and hurried into the consulate. Rasputin was left alone in the stifling Shanghai crowd. The wall of sound formed by the people and animals mingling around him felt overwhelming. He found himself seeking out white woolen coats instinctively, eyes desperately searching for the familiar glint of a siberian rifle. He knew he'd find none here, and the thought shouldn't have terrified him so, but he shrunk into his coat all the same. A nervous energy possessed him and for a maddening moment he thought he might just kill someone, anyone, just to reassert control over himself.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A Japanese private chose that time to bark a question at him in broken Russian, before taking out something from his pouch. A paper was shoved into his face, and it took a second for him to realize he was staring at a badly drawn picture of himself. He snatched the offending piece of paper and threw it on the ground, spitting on it. His nose was not that big! The soldiers all simultaneously raised their rifles, screaming more orders at him. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What's going on here?” came from his left, and then he was being pushed to the side by a stocky white man in an American uniform. He considered punching him, but the blond was already waving threateningly at the Japanese, screaming about political repercussions of starting shit on US soil. Rasputin found it hilarious, but bit his tongue just this once. A light touch on his lower back and a warm whisper of <em> пошли отсюда </em>next to his ear told him Corto was back and eager to leave before the situation escalated. Rasputin took his chance and fired a single shot at the Japanese soldiers, before running towards the carriage with Corto screaming at him in tow. The frightened carriage driver didn't even try to argue as he forced his horses into a gallop, and Rasputin stuck his head out of the window to watch the squabbling armies exchange blows with glee. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Are you absolutely mad?!” Corto yelled, pulling him back into the wooden carriage. His hands clutched onto Rasputin's coat, an exasperated expression twisting his face. Rasputin thought he quite liked him like this. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Did you see what they did to my handsome face? I could've killed them all if your American chumps hadn't interfered!” he said, without much conviction. The carriage trembled and creaked as they rushed over the bridge, almost hitting several civilians on their path. Rasputin laughed wildly, enjoying the chaos. This is what he'd been missing in the military! So many rules on who to kill or not to kill, so many nagging superiors watching his every move, a man couldn't breathe like that. Now he felt like someone had pulled his trigger and the world was not ready for what had been unleashed. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Outside, the afternoon scenery changed quickly, and they were suddenly overlooking a forest of sails and masts while they hurried down the Bund. He thought he saw a Russian flag in passing but the colors blurred together too quickly for him to be sure. Corto shouted something in Chinese at the panicked carriage driver and they suddenly made a sharp right, almost toppling over as the horses whined in protest. Whangpoo river was replaced by an urban hellscape once again, this time comprising of two-story lane houses which were separated by elaborate stone arches. Their ride finally slowed, though Rasputin tried to intimidate the driver into taking them even further. Corto slipped out of the carriage and paid the poor man, hissing for the other man to get out. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“We need to get to Foochow Road if you ever want to do something exciting. Come on, I'm expected somewhere.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Rasputin squinted at the order, everything in him rebelling at the idea of blindly listening to it. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“...If you're lying, I will kill you and leave your body in one of these alleyways!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“How morbid. You need to get new material Rasputin.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Rasputin quieted at that and resigned himself to just following this force of nature wherever he needed to. Corto did promise him entertainment after all. He wondered what that meant for the young sailor. When Vasily invited him out for ‘entertainment’ at night, as most of the encampment was asleep, he usually meant visiting the nearest whorehouse and drinking themselves into a stupor. '<em> I cannot go alone' </em> , he'd whine, ' <em> I need someone to cover for me in the morning.'  </em>Rasputin suspected his idiot friend was just afraid of being alone. He felt giddy as he pondered the possibility of his companion feeling the same.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Who's expecting your sorry mug?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Corto turned his head to peer at him over his shoulder, a smile audible in his voice, “a woman.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They walked in silence under the heavy shadows cast by brick and stone, grey giants pressing in on both sides, rarely broken by a tiny store or teahouse which the native Chinese frequented. Rasputin shadowed Corto as if his life depended on it, almost wishing he had some sort of leash to tie the other man to himself so he wouldn't lose him in the busy crowd. Instead, he just kept his eyes on that damnable earring and his hands in his pockets, feeling the paper money under his fingertips. It calmed him instantly. Corto seemed fidgety, stopping abruptly a few times to listen for something Rasputin couldn't catch, before resuming a jogging pace. The Russian chalked it up to his friend's quirkiness. Who knows what ghosts he was seeing in his own imagination.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Now that the thrill of running from the Japanese (again) had died down, Rasputin noticed he was terribly hungry. Two days of barely retaining anything on a ship that personally wanted him dead did that to a person.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I don't care who's waiting, I'm stopping for a proper meal”, he shouted at Corto,”if that exists in this blasted country.” The boy didn't show a sign of stopping, so Rasputin caught his arm with more force than necessary. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Did you hear me?!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I heard you, I heard you, now get your hand off of me!” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>A few strangers passing by them jumped in surprise at Corto's raised voice, and Rasputin snatched his hand back, as if scalded. He didn't understand the sudden change in mood, but he'd be damned if he was going to let him talk to him like that. Corto didn't give him an opportunity to react, because he schooled his expression immediately and just like that, the tension was gone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You're right, we should stop to eat.” The Spaniard ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up, and sighed. Rasputin caught himself raising a hand to straighten out the stray locks, and quickly covered it up by pointing at a random small food stall crammed between two European buildings. The seller didn't look very respectable but he also didn't look like he'd poison their food, which was more than he could say for the cooks on the ship. Corto turned to look at where he was pointing and then shrugged. It didn't surprise him that Corto had no special care for what he ate - he'd seen him swallow down the shit they called food on the steamer and not complain. Rasputin couldn't figure out if that was a side effect of growing up poor or so rich you could simply afford anything you wanted. The second option made him red with envy so he quickly shoved it away. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Corto spoke quickly with the shop owner, not even bothering to consult Rasputin on what he was buying, and then told him he needed to check a shop across the street briefly. Rasputin resigned to spitting in Corto's food when the other wasn't looking. The steaming treats in front of him dragged his attention away, his stomach growling at the sight. The cook was preparing something that looked, or at least smelled like, his mother's pelmeni, though he doubted these were stuffed with freshly caught rabbit. Shooting stray dogs and rabbits had been a favorite of his since he could handle a rifle, and his mother always dutifully prepared food from his kills, even if she didn't like it when he got animal blood on her carpet.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He missed her. He realized he hadn't really stopped to think about his poor mother, who probably wasn't even going to be told he's alive. Deserters didn't get that luxury. She'll probably think he'd found his grave in some snowy ditch and didn't even have the decency to come back to haunt her as a ghost. A disappointment of a son until the very end. He'd never been good to her, always away getting into fights and coming back home covered in bruises and cuts she'd have to patch up. But still… She had cried when it was time for him to leave for Manchuria. Maybe she'd known her good for nothing son wasn't coming back.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The owner handed him his dumplings and Rasputin unwillingly forked over some cash, mentally adding it to the list of things Corto has forced him to do. One day, he'd make the boy pay. But for now, he'd have to find him first. He did say briefly, right? Rasputin looked around, trying to spot the brown mop of hair and a golden earring he knew so well, but came up with nothing. Something that felt uncomfortably like worry, but was most likely just rage, swirled in his stomach and he set out in the direction of the shop Corto had mentioned. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It didn't take him long to realize Corto wasn't inside, likely never had planned on going in anyway, and Rasputin's brain kicked into overdrive. He didn't want to admit it, but the most likely explanation was that Corto had just left him, probably sick of him now that he'd done his good deed of the week by helping him escape. He certainly hadn't seemed happy ever since they've left the carriage, always looking around as if he was planning his exit. Now Rasputin felt stupid for not noticing it earlier and at least getting one last punch in before they'd parted. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>A man staggered into him for a nearby alleyway, pushing Rasputin back as he stumbled and fell on his face. Rasputin cursed at the contact, only noticing the blood stains the man had left on his coat after he'd collapsed. It was fresh, and the wound was clearly large enough to knock the stranger out cold. Rasputin didn't waste time checking if he was dead, already running into the rather dark passage, gun safely in his hand. Who knew Shanghai could be this exciting!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The smell of blood pushed him forward, reminiscent of his days spent in the trenches, except there were no exhausted comrades to tend to, no battle cries to dance to. He skipped over something in his way, not even registering the dead body with a knife in its back. He hoped the party wasn't over yet.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Rasputin finally broke into a small clearing, breathing heavily, dumplings still in hand. The first thing he registered were the bodies - Chinese, all dressed the same, most likely from the same organization - and they weren't moving. Three men, all sprawled on the floor in various positions, some bleeding out from invisible wounds. None of them were moving. The second was… Corto was kneeling over a fourth corpse, to the left, his upper body obscured by heavy shadows that fell over him. From this angle, it almost looked like he was praying. Something about the scene before him made Rasputin feel hot under the collar. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“If you were going to fight for your life in the streets, you could have at least invited me to watch…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Corto's back straightened at his words, and he slowly rose to his feet, form bent slightly to the right. Seems like not even his companion could take on so many assailants without suffering an injury or two. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Rasputin… I'll remember to give you a heads up next time I decide to do this.” He sounded winded, his normal flat pitch all over the place. He nodded towards the now probably ruined food. “Did you get the xiaolongbao?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Rasputin threw the dumplings in front of him and then closed the distance, delighting in the way Corto flinched back slightly, body still anticipating a fight. He grabbed his right shoulder and the boy hissed, confirming his theory. The Russian pulled back to stare at his friend, enjoying the flecks of dried blood that framed his jaw and the red spot just under his eye that would surely turn purple by tomorrow. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Who were they?” Rasputin plucked Corto's now crushed pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket, and lit one up, handing it to the boy. Corto, much to his disappointment, wasted no time in stepping away from him, not even muttering a ‘thanks’ before he took a drag from the cigarette. Rasputin caught sight of the blood on his fingers and wondered what else they were capable of.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Enemies of the Triad, unhappy with my presence and involvement with the aforementioned secret society.” Corto spoke lazily between puffs, “Afraid that I'm here to bring secrets from Manchuria.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And? Are you?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Corto didn't answer, just smiled enigmatically and continued smoking. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Fine, have it your way! But I want in on whatever you're doing here. I'll let you call me your partner even.” Rasputin grinned, confident now his friend would lead him to a fortune, Solomon's mines or not. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I'd rather be partners with a scorpion.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Rasputin's mood soured at that. He rushed all this way to find the boy and he wouldn't even accept his partnership? Both him and that American fool were all the same, ungrateful and spiteful! Corto, as if reading his mind, shook his head slightly, clearly amused. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Let's go, compañero, we've wasted too much time here already.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You should respect me, Corto Maltese, or I might just-”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Kill me? Get in line, Rasputin.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Russian huffed, throwing one last look at the bodies on the floor, only one of them appearing to be breathing. ‘One of these days…’ was said as he crouched above one of the corpses, taking a particularly elegant knife from its bloodied hands. Not like the dead man would ever need it again. He also rifled through his pockets, annoyed with the realization that they were empty. Maybe this secret society business wasn't as lucrative as he was led to believe… What a waste. He understood now devoted idiots were all the same, no matter the colors on their uniforms. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Rasputin jumped back up on his feet once he heard footsteps coming from behind, turning around quickly to take aim. Corto hadn't moved from his spot, still casually smoking, and Rasputin relaxed slightly. Whoever these new faces were, they weren't out for blood. More uniformed Chinese men appeared, now with different colors and patterns on their clothes, and they nodded towards Corto.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“We're terribly sorry for this, Mr. Maltese, we'd lost sight of you for a moment and…” Rasputin almost expected them to speak in unison. He thought he spied one of the crew members from Amara among them, but it was probably a mistake. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I've been told I'm a hard man to follow.” Corto spoke between drags, bloody knuckles shining menacingly in the light, “Now please, I’d hate to keep miss Song waiting”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Triad members all bowed, and they took after them. Rasputin whispered a questioning ‘Song?’ at his friend, feeling like he'd heard the name somewhere. Corto simply offered ‘billionaire’ and ‘cargo trading’, and Rasputin immediately perked up. Who knew his companion made friends with such influential people! Now he was certain he hadn't made a mistake following him. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>After what felt like an hour of walking, but was probably less than a few minutes, they entered the entertainment center of Shanghai. Teahouses, restaurants, theaters… The flashy buildings stretched down as far as the eye could see, people of all nationalities and races eagerly running from one place to the next. More carriages were parked in front of most of the establishments, some seemingly quite elegant and high-quality. The air seemed thicker here, and Rasputin felt like he could sense the city pulsing from where he was standing. His empty stomach brought him back to reality, reminding him he had thrown a perfectly good meal to the dogs out of spite just recently. He ignored the hunger. Their destination was finally close.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lanterns gently swaying in the wind signaled their arrival, and Rasputin realized he should have known that entertainment meant the same thing in all languages spoken by young men. A burly man stood in front of the entrance, dressed modestly and looking extremely bored. Sing song houses like these weren't particularly popular during the day, and their allure wasn't as strong, the light of day exposing far too much for comfort. The Triad members spoke in hushed tones with the guard, and he sized them both up before apparently deciding they weren't worth the effort. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Miss Song is with the maestro right now, she cannot receive you right now.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Rasputin wondered whatever the fuck a maestro was in a courtesan house and why that was more important than them, but Corto stepped forward before he was able to voice his displeasure.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“We'll wait.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Suit yourselves. The maids will show you to the parlor.” The guard's face barely changed, only a flicker of irritation showing in his frown lines. Rasputin’s annoyance with the situation only grew. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“We'll wait for you outside. Don't waste her time, Corto Maltese. We may be your allies now, but that could easily change.” And with that, the uniformed servants stepped aside. Rasputin observed Corto privately, noting the way his fingers tensed and relaxed while listening. Was he remembering the events in the alleyway? Did his companion have the same brutal instinct, the kind that ended with bloodied hands and ragged breaths? The Russian wished he could peer into Corto's mind and rip out all the thorns that the boy kept so carefully hidden, string them together and crown him with blood. Rasputin stopped that thought dead. He must truly be going mad, if he was already comparing his friend to Jesus Christ. The implications troubled him. He needed to stop paying so much attention to the sailor. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I don't remember allying myself with you, but even so. I would never waste a lady's time.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They were led upstairs by what Rasputin supposed was one of the maids, but she was dressed as extravagantly as any prostitute he'd seen before that it was hard to tell. Her dress fit tightly around her body and the sleeves were shorter than any he'd seen before. Her body language was more self assured than a lot of the men he'd seen in the military and it endeared him. All the women he'd come in contact with through Vasily had been crude and best met under the veil of darkness, where their job could be over quickly. He didn't care for them touching him, getting their filthy hands and mouths on his body, but he played along, did what was expected of him. He'd never realized one could get more out of the experience.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The parlor room was spacious, there were several gambling tables filling it out, all covered with colorful decorative drapes. The bar was to their right, an impressive collection of foreign alcohol displayed on it. Only two of the tables were occupied, rich men of various nationalities speaking in English loud enough for Rasputin to catch the names of more than one foreign trading company, and a few choice words directed at them too. His brain was already formulating several plans on how to cheat these snobs out of their money, reasons why they came here forgotten. They were playing cards, most likely poker, and their suits told him they weren't the kind of folks that would bet tiny sums. He could score big here. He turned to Corto instinctively, looking for permission before he could even stop himself. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“... Just don't do anything that will get us thrown out.” Corto said, already heading for the drinks. Rasputin hoped he'd have some decent alcohol this time.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why would I get into trouble, what are you implying?” But he didn't get his answer.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>From then on, it was a blur. Money changed hands quickly and unpredictably, and luck seemed to smile down upon him. When he'd told Corto he was a gentleman of luck, it had been a little white lie. He had faith in his skills, certainly, but fortune wasn't something he'd gamble on. His luck had been used up at birth, when he lived while his mother had died. His entire existence was a matter of chance and blood wrapped up in siberian winter snow. But Rasputin believed in the world paying its dues to those it takes from, especially men as deserving as he was. It was only right for him to win and for these rich bastards who'd never known anything but comfort to lose. He was certain he was doing the world a favor, and being rewarded for it. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>At some point they were joined by a woman, which he assumed was one of the courtesans here, by the way one of the men welcomed her by his side. But she looked nothing like the maid from before. Rasputin couldn't help but compare her to his friend. She wore a long silk gown that was fashioned for men, with long pants underneath and she eagerly accepted a cigar from her client, smoking nonchalantly as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The woman's hair was short and messy, only a shade darker than Corto's. A familiar need to reach out and run his fingers through it possessed him and as if reading his mind, the courtesan looked straight at him. He found himself under another knowing gaze, feeling as if she was freely plucking his innermost thoughts and reading them aloud. Rasputin looked around, suddenly feeling trapped and exposed in his company, but it didn't seem like any of the gamblers had noticed or cared enough about him to notice his struggle. The woman parted from her client, walking confidently over to his side, and he felt her bending down to whisper in his ear to come visit her in her room later. He could hear laughter from around him, but it felt impossibly far away, all his senses focused on the hand trailing down his back - too small, too light - and the blood pounding in his ears. Then it was over, and the woman was back at her lover's side, chatting easily with the men at the table. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Rasputin excused himself, loudly explaining that he felt he'd used up his luck, and he all but ran away from the gambling table. Corto wasn't at the bar and that should have worried him, but he was secretly glad the Spaniard couldn't see him like this. He'd take one look at him and know - know what, Rasputin didn't even understand himself - but just the thought frightened him. He really didn't want to drink now, on an empty stomach, but the bottle was so inviting. He settled on a glass of vodka to burn through his malaise, and then he'd set out to find his missing friend. Hopefully, by then he'd have stopped thinking about how badly he wanted to… </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He stared at his reflection in the clear drink and thought about drowning at the bottom of the glass. Then he put it down, and stomped off to search for Corto. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It didn't take him long, considering the establishment itself wasn't too large, to find the wandering sailor in the modest courtyard hidden behind the building, most of it enveloped in its shadow. Corto was sitting on a bench under an oak tree that was just beginning to wake from winter, its branches still bare for the most part. The Spaniard was smoking alone, seemingly lost in thought. He wondered what the world must look like through his eyes. More importantly, he wondered what the boy saw when he looked at him - whether he spared him even a bit of the casual fascination he observed everything else in life with. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Did you get rejected by your girl?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Corto turned his face to him, a small smile tugging at his lips. They seemed redder than usual and Rasputin hated that he knew to compare it at all. When Corto made no indication of moving, he sat down next to him, trying to find whatever phantom had caught his friend's attention. “Got bored of ripping the fat cats upstairs off?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“The gilded butterflies up there aren't worth my time! Anyway, don't avoid the question, damn you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, Rasputin, I had no idea you were a fan of British theater!” He could see that Corto had leaned back and was now staring at the sky, so he did the same. The scenery reminded him of Siberia during spring, except it was not nearly as cold or drab. There weren't many clouds in the sky and he was thankful for that, sensing that his friend would have tried to play some kind of stupid game like forcing them into shapes or some similar idiocy. Rasputin harrumphed, wanting to argue.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“She was beautiful.” Corto whispered. Rasputin almost missed the admission, but the breathy voice he'd said it with made the hair on his neck stand. He'd never heard his companion like this, downright vulnerable and smitten, and a strange unease swirled in his stomach at this discovery. What kind of a blasted woman could reduce Corto Maltese to a lovestruck boy? Rasputin didn't dare turn to look at him now, too afraid of what he might find on his friend's face. He thought of the courtesan and her invitation. He thought of the abandoned bottle of vodka at the counter. He thought of drowning on land. How ridiculous!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Your sentimentality disgusts me.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Rasputin, don't be so joyless… Tell me, did any of the girls catch your eye? I know for sure that even you cannot resist a beautiful woman.” Corto didn't sound bothered, rather, his tone vibrated with an easy sort of contentment, like a fat cat after a big meal. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Are you trying to insult me? I'm not a romantic fool like you!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Corto's right hand found his arm, patting it lightly, and then it settled there, just holding on. Rasputin still didn't dare to look directly at his friend, but his presence calmed him strangely. He'd never liked physical touch and more than a few people back in his country had marks to prove it. He didn't understand why a simple touch could make him feel so grounded and yet free.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ah, sure. Well in any case, I think we have at least two hours left, maybe more…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I hope you're not planning on going back to the ship already.” Rasputin balked at the prospect of returning to that ghastly metal cage Corto called a ship. He wasn't through with Shanghai yet.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Thankfully, neither was his companion. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No. Say, have you ever tried opium, Rasputin?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Finally, the Russian turned to look at Corto, excitement evident in his mad grin. Truthfully, he'd never indulged in the military, but he'd seen Vasily come down from it the two times his idiot of a friend had taken it, and that hadn't made him eager to try. But, sitting here with Corto's hand still comfortably holding him, he felt invincible. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yes, obviously, who do you take me for?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Good, come with me then, miss Song has arranged a room for us. ‘Should we need it’ she'd said.” Maybe this woman wasn't so bad after all. He made a mental note to thank her if he ran into her. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Corto led him back into the building, his hand blissfully never too far away. Their room was on the second floor, which Rasputin considered a crime of its own. The walls of the corridors were painted a light, inoffensive red, with various Chinese art pieces hanging on them, something Rasputin thought was unnecessary for a sing song house, but welcomed all the same. He supposed it helped ease the guilt or embarrassment of some of the customers. All of the doors they'd passed were open, but Rasputin could hear female voices from within and nothing more. He wondered how many courtesans like the one he'd met were working here. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Here we are.” Corto said as they stopped in front of yet another unremarkable entrance with a silk curtain and Chinese letters that meant nothing to him nailed to the frame. The Spaniard knocked on it twice, and they waited for a moment, before the light sound of bound feet reached the opened door and a mousy woman dressed in several layers of ornate fur appeared behind it. Her expression never once changed from pleasant curiosity as she ushered them in and led them to the opium divan. From his position on the couch, Rasputin spared a moment to take in the sheer opulence of the room, which was almost blinding with its numerous lamps and an extravagant chandelier that looked like it was genuinely made out of gold. Paintings and calligraphy scrolls littered the walls, covering up a rather ugly yellow wallpaper. A bed with embroidered curtains was positioned in the center of the room, provocative and teasing, and various chests filled with what he assumed were clothes and jewelry were placed on either side. Somehow, the room even included a dining table with chairs neatly surrounding it. He couldn't imagine every courtesan enjoyed the same luxury. The woman moved with practiced ease through her domain, taking out and preparing the necessary tools for them. She offered them alcohol and food, and Rasputin almost begged for it, but remembered the way Vasily had handled the drug. The last thing he wanted was to appear even weaker in front of Corto.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Relax, guapo.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His friend's voice shook him out of his reverie and Rasputin told him to piss off, secretly thankful for the words. He noticed the courtesan was sitting close to Corto now, holding his pipe to his lips while she roasted the pellets. From his position, it looked like a deranged parody of a medieval painting of some maiden tending to a battle worn knight, except this was no maiden, and Corto was a far cry from an honorable cavalier. There were still far too many traces of blood under his fingernails for that to be true. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Stop cursing me in your damn language and say it to my face properly!” Rasputin’s angry outburst carried through the spacious room, no doubt escaping into the empty hall outside, for all the prostitution world to hear. It was followed by a pregnant pause and then his friend was doubling over, laughing harder than he'd ever seen him before. Rasputin’s irritation only grew.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Rasputin…” Corto wheezed, mercifully switching to Russian so the courtesan wouldn't understand ,”I was calling you handsome you madman!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“...What?!?” Rasputin was caught between feeling mortified and elated, his face morphed in disbelief and completely red. He looked at his insane friend, and then at the prostitute who still wore the same expression as alway, and felt at a loss for words. It wasn't a pleasant feeling.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Light his pipe, please.” Corto told the woman, before turning to look at Rasputin with mischief in his eyes, “Or would you prefer me to do it?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He'd had enough.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“... I would, actually.” Rasputin said, a slight tremble to his voice. He still picked up his own pipe and pointed it at Corto expectantly. The latter didn't move, and Rasputin delighted in the wide eyed look not even his stoic friend could cover up. He hadn't expected that. Serves him right. Rasputin wasn't some mindless idiot who's just going to follow him wherever and take his insults. He was the one in command and the boy better not forget it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Corto blinked a few times, and then that easy smile of his was back in full force, adapting quickly to the situation. He waved away the courtesan and then grabbed Rasputin’s pipe firmly, getting very close suddenly. It took all of his power not to flinch at the intimacy, not wanting to reveal how fragile his resolve was. In truth, he had no idea what this was, or where it was heading and that filled him with dread. Friendships had always confused him, he didn't know how to make them, let alone make them last. The rare cases where someone had stuck with him, he didn't know how to let them know he appreciated it. Most often, he didn't even get the chance. And what Corto and he had… He wasn't sure it was even friendship.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Time started to slip away from him after that. They both laid on their sides, pipes extended over the oil lamp to keep the opium burning, smoke obscuring their faces slightly. The effects were almost immediate and way more powerful than Rasputin had anticipated, an utter calmness washing over and enveloping him like a warm blanket he never wanted to part from. An overwhelming sense of peace came with the drug, scrubbing him clean and making the world fade into the background. Nothing mattered and nothing hurt and his head was full of cotton. The only thing he struggled with was nausea, but it was background noise compared to the euphoria he was feeling. He never wanted to move again. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>When he could keep his eyes open, he'd steal glances at his friend, who seemed completely at home on this divan, on this Earth. Sometimes he'd see his lips moving, reciting poems, or maybe he was just talking, maybe he was imagining it all, but he couldn't for the life of him parse the meaning. All he could focus on were those lips and how red they could be if one applied enough pressure. Apathy washed over him like a tide, every hit both amplifying and numbing all sensations, until there was nothing but him and the man on the other side and the smoke. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Is she still here?” Rasputin found himself saying suddenly, not even certain who he was referring to himself. But it had felt important, so he asked again, trying to muster enough strength to look around. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I sent her away?” Even Corto didn't seem certain, a slight frown on his face. He looked so childish with it that Rasputin couldn't help but laugh. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Good! This is a man's business…” He nodded, absolutely certain of its exclusivity. They didn't need any pesky women now. “Listen to me, Corto Maltese! Women will ruin you and cheat you out of your money better than any swindler!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What are you rambling about…?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Rasputin continued, feeling emboldened by the situation, “Listen! I know you… You're the soft romantic kind! The biggest of idiots! Women will take one look at you and eat you up!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Corto was shaking his head, but it seemed like something he was doing out of habit, rather than any real attention. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“A real gentleman of luck should never let one of those hags chain him down, do you hear me! Real men, like you and me…” Rasputin was quickly losing his thread of thought, “... Only need to be thinking about money!” He finished triumphantly, satisfied that he managed to pass on such wisdom onto the younger man. Corto should sing him praises for his generosity, really!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Your madness is very charming, Rasputin. But what nonsense are you talking about?...”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>If it weren't for the opium making him feel like he could laugh in God's face and live, he would have yelled at him for that. How ignorant his companion was…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Everything I've said is correct and you should be grateful I'm wasting breath on you at all!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Alright, alright. Here, more pellets.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Rasputin snatched the drugs quickly, roasting them like Corto had shown him. He felt cold, the room almost threateningly so, but he was pleasantly unaffected. He realized his own body was burning up, melted to the divan, but it didn't matter. Nothing did.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Are you telling me you've never wanted to share your life with a woman then? Were all the girls in Siberia as pretty as you?” Corto spoke teasingly, but something told him he was asking something deeper underneath. Rasputin struggled to understand how his friend could keep up his wicked mind games even when intoxicated. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I try to expand your mind and you repay me by mocking me! You're impossible!” Rasputin said, and then, almost like an afterthought, “... No. I've never.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Corto didn't even pretend to be surprised, which annoyed him more than it should. Rasputin had admitted something, or at least it felt like a shameful confession, and Corto was acting as if he'd known all along. But he wasn't judging either. A weird neutral expression was sitting on his face, almost like a mask. Rasputin hated masks. There wasn't any space for pretend in their partnership!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Did you…” Rasputin didn't finish the thought, struggling to fight off a wave of nausea.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Feel that way - today?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The mask held on,”It seems you're the romantic here Rasputin. What gave you that idea?” Corto asked nonchalantly, but the Russian sensed real uncertainty in those words. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“There you go again with your jokes. A man cannot be straight with you, you turn everything into a farce!” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Corto set his pipe down and raised his hands in mock surrender.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Tranquilo. I… I don't know. I can't answer your question.” He sounded sincerely apologetic although Rasputin wasn't sure who he was apologizing to. His friend visibly deflated, as if the confession had taken everything out of him. Rasputin reached out, afraid he might crumple in on himself, careful to hold only his left side this time. The opium was still holding his higher brain functions in a vice grip and even sitting up to support his friend had taken a great deal of effort. The scene reminded him of the garden just a few minutes ago, or maybe it was hours, when Corto had laid his hand on him and the world righted itself on his command. He realized he wanted to do the same for him. No, it wasn't just a single touch that could help his companion. He needed to chase away the memory that possessed the boy, the apparition with a woman's face that had nested in his foolish heart. But he was paralyzed by it, by this miss Song that laughed in his face without even needing to be present in the flesh. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He searched Corto's eyes for permission, for some kind of sign that the sailor wanted his help, wanted what Rasputin so desperately longed to give. And much to his surprise, Corto responded. He covered Rasputin’s hand on him, seemingly understanding his intentions perfectly. The accepting warmth overwhelmed the Russian, and he forgot himself for a moment, before instinct took over and he was kissing him. Kissing Corto Maltese shouldn't have felt like the best decision he'd made in his life, but it did. He felt the kiss behind his eyelids, he felt in his throat, he felt it in his stomach. There wasn't a single part of him that didn't tremble with the knowledge that he'd pressed their lips together and Corto hadn't stopped him. He couldn't tell how much of what he was experiencing was the high and how much was the simple euphoria of finally doing something you knew was right - right in a way none of the countless empty trysts with nameless prostitutes had been. Corto surprisingly let him lead, mouth pliant and responsive under Rasputin, not taking more than the man could give. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Rasputin's left hand found Corto's jaw and he tilted it gently to get better access, deepening the kiss as if this was the last opportunity he'd ever have. That thought hounded him, the idea that this was just a passing whim of a sentimental man that could end at any second, the moment he realized who he was kissing and why. He sucked on Corto's lower lip with more force than necessary and the boy hissed, briefly breaking the kiss. They both breathed heavily in the tiny space that separated them, each anticipating what the other would do. Then Corto snorted, and the tension evaporated. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Jesus, Ras, I know you haven't eaten but go easy on me.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Rasputin’s thoughts grinded to a halt at the nickname. He was on top of him before he could even rationalize it, face buried in Corto's nape and leaving a trail of bites and kisses he didn't even care would probably be visible for all the world to see. Corto breathed in harshly, grabbing his shoulders in a weak attempt to push him off, but like hell Rasputin was going to let him ruin this. Still, he slowed down, pressing closed mouthed kisses along his jaw, earning a shiver and a sigh from his friend. The hands on him relaxed and found their way to his head, guiding him back to Corto's lips. He melted into it, struggling to focus on just one thing happening. He felt Corto murmuring something between kisses but it was hard to concentrate with the thumb trailing circles slowly on his skin or the way the boy pressed into him, holding Rasputin close. It was too much.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Rasputin? You- You're shaking, is everything alright?” Corto pulled back, looking at him with genuine worry, but the Russian couldn't keep his eyes off of how red his lips were, how the top button on his shirt was unbuttoned and exposed Corto's sun-kissed skin, how shallow his breathing still was despite the concern. Rasputin had done that. And Corto had rewarded him, in his own way. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I think I'm going to be sick.” Was all the warning he gave before his stomach finally gave up and he retched next to the divan. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Rasputin…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Shut up.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He wiped his mouth, feeling like death. The effects of opium were starting to wear off and the numbing sense of nothingness was giving way to all kinds of regrets, most centered around the boy who was still maddeningly close. He felt tired and his muscles were out of sorts, so he just laid back, resigned to his fate. Corto stayed silent, for which Rasputin was eternally grateful, not having the energy to deal with him right now. At some point, he felt a cold hand on his forehead wiping away the sweat and swiping his hair back gently, but he didn't bother opening his eyes to find out who it was. He just wanted to sleep forever.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Rasputin never got what he wanted.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Sir, you need to wake up. I need to prepare for tonight's entertainment.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Russian opened his eyes reluctantly, still feeling like that time when he was 13 and left alone with his mother's alcohol cabinet. Nauseated and disoriented, he instinctively grabbed around for his rifle, thinking this was just another bad decision that was going to earn him a temper tantrum from his captain and a penalty round with the night guard. Then he remembered he wasn't ever going to be put on night guard again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What… Where is he?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The intrusive voice, which he finally connected to the mousy prostitute from before, spoke slowly, like he was a particularly stupid child,”Your friend is downstairs with the madame. He told me to let you rest until he was done with his duties.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“He left me here?!?” Rasputin couldn't believe the Spaniard. The anger woke him up, and he wobbled onto his feet, fighting back the sickness. He didn't even spare the woman a second glance as he rushed past her and out the door.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>None of the interior decor of the sing song house seemed endearing to him now, the red walls only exacerbating his foul mood. He struggled with the stairs, trying to find a compromise between his mind and his legs, which felt like putty. He almost missed the last step, swinging off balance. Several pairs of eyes landed on him, no doubt pitying the intoxicated fool. He didn't care, dignity still a far away concept for him with opium still in his system. He rushed over to the ornate wooden table, where Corto was seated along with an older woman and two smartly dressed men. Corto's collar was buttoned up high.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Rasputin?” He knew the other had seen him, but the boy still acted like his arrival had surprised him. “Finished with your nap so soon? Come, join us.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I bet you would have preferred it if I had stayed asleep! Then you could have left me in this filthy whorehouse, admit it!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The woman next to Corto gasped in shock and his friend apologized quickly, excusing himself and pushing Rasputin towards the door. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Would it kill you to behave for once in your life?” Corto hissed. The Russian resisted, not yet done with his companion. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So you're saying what I said isn't true?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Of course it isn't! Now you better start cooperating before she sends guards after us.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>If he wasn't still feeling hungover, he would have fought, and he let Corto know as much. The sailor just pushed him out through the door and followed suit, dragging Rasputin away from the main street and people and into one of the many alleyways that led from it into the residential areas. The boy leaned against a brick wall and Rasputin realized his friend wasn't as steady on his own two feet either. This discovery thrilled him. It'd be pathetic if only he was affected by their little expedition. It was getting darker outside, which meant they were long overdue for a trip back, but Corto didn't seem to be in a rush so he didn't say anything.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Never a dull moment with you, Ras.” Corto said with a smile. The Russian felt his heart clench almost painfully in his chest, the nickname bringing back all of the smoke covered memories from the past two hours. He was convinced he'd never be able to think of anything else when hearing it. Gone was his opium courage and resolve and in its place settled the old fear he'd been carrying around for most of his life, the deplorable fear of being cast aside. Corto had no reason to keep him around, especially not after he'd witnessed Rasputin’s true nature. Maybe it would have been better if he had indeed left him in that room.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why are you frowning like that, viejo?” Somewhere in his misery, Corto had drawn close and was now watching him in the same way he'd been on the divan, “are you feeling sick again?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Damn him and damn his bleeding heart! Rasputin should have known his friend wouldn't judge him for his infatuation, he probably wasn't even the first man that had been interested in him that way. He vainly wondered if he was the first to claim Corto's lips. The impulse to wipe the slate clean and write his name upon them, until his stake was unmistakable, was overwhelming, and he realized he could indulge it. He had been willing, then, but maybe it was something his friend had done to placate him. The thought disgusted him. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He reached out tentatively, stopping a shaking hand mere centimeters away from Corto's cheek, unsure of how to proceed. The boy stared impassively at him and then his hand, and for once Rasputin wished Corto would just read his mind and tell him how to act. He'd never bothered with propriety or boundaries before, but he was at a loss here. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What are you doing?” Corto asked, tone maddeningly neutral. Strangely, that's what gave Rasputin the final push. He planted his hand on the sailor's head and pulled him in, pressing their lips together hard enough to bruise. Corto made a noise of annoyance in the back of his throat, but he didn't draw back. Rasputin felt arms sneaking around his waist and pulling him closer, their bodies slotting together perfectly. The Russian couldn't understand how he'd gotten this far, but he thanked the gods anyway, half heartedly promising to visit church more often. Did they have orthodox churches in these parts? Corto's tongue slipped into his mouth and all thoughts of sanctity flew out of the window. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It ended as quickly as it had started, with Corto making a sour face as he pulled away. Rasputin’s mind went into overdrive, wondering what he'd done to mess it all up. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You need to brush your teeth.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Rasputin punched him in his right side. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Later, Corto needled him into paying for the ride back to Amara, citing the rather impressive list of people he'd had to apologize to on Rasputin's behalf today. The Russian still didn't see why he had to waste his hard earned money on him, but easily warmed up to the idea when he realized he'd have to walk back all the way to the docks on his own otherwise. This time, Corto didn't just ignore him and smoke and Rasputin finally felt like they were on the same page. It was almost enough to make him forget that he'd need to sail again soon.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The origin of Corto's copy of Utopia is here! And so is some angst, just a bit. For the historical part of this, the bird watching is a joke on the captain's name, which matches a sorta famous ornithologist of the time, Frank Bullen is a nautical writer with many maritime books (but he was racist so fuck him) and SS Hip Sang was an actual ship and the main reason why I picked the trading company that I did. Sailing with Amerigo Vespucci and crossing vast deserts is a reference to More's Utopia and the sailor/traveler Raphael who Corto is most certainly partially based on. Maybe.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>March 17th, East China Sea, heading for Hong Kong </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Corto walked out of the captain's cabin, Thomas More's Utopia resting safely in his left hand. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Since leaving Shanghai, the crew's mood had rapidly deteriorated for reasons unknown, although he'd heard whispers of more labor cuts and replacements by cheap foreign workers, which was pretty standard for British ships at the time. Amara had a sizable amount of Chinese and Indian hands on deck already, although Corto rarely saw them outside of the engine room. He knew the attitudes the white seamen had about foreign employees and he cared little for it, knowing from experience a man's value had little to do with the color of his skin. A great example of exactly that was the captain he'd just left fuming in his cabin, a rather unpleasant and rigid man with no sense of humor or patience for small talk. Eaton Howard, an exceptionally unimaginative man for a sailor, didn't even crack a smile at Corto asking if he's fond of birdwatching in his off hours. But he supposed he should be more kind to him, as he did lend him a book from his own collection, claiming it's a rather old printing at that. They'd discussed maritime trade in the Orient and the captain had quite a lot of stories to tell, some even interesting, though he was willfully ignorant in all matters of culture that weren't British - a defense mechanism many of his compatriots had developed after years of working away from her majesty’s graces. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Corto had shared his African goals with the man reluctantly, feeling a weird sort of kinship with the well-traveled seaman. He realized honesty was possibly one of the only ways he'd ensure his stay on this ship, unstable as is, and he'd talked. The captain had listened with more patience than he'd expected, occasionally waving for him to hurry it along at the more fantastical bits, which had reminded him of his Russian companion. Rasputin had reacted similarly on the train ride when Corto had told him of his plans, except the man hadn't had nearly as much patience for anything that didn't involve the gold. His single-mindedness was almost endearing. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Captain Howard had told him, point blank, that he was a foolish and self-important brat and that he should give up now if he wanted to have any kind of career as a sailor. Corto had respectfully disagreed, citing the captain himself as clear proof anyone could become a mariner. He'd been thrown out after that, the angry man screaming at him about ‘the youth these days, all thinking they're Frank Bullen or some shite.’</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Standing on the boiler deck, he had a decent view of the lower area with its engine room and freight. His eyes instinctively sought out Rasputin, who had taken a liking to smoking near the rails - probably as a precaution because of his weak stomach. The man seemed even smaller from where he was standing. Corto quickly averted his eyes to stare at the sunset once he sensed Rasputin had noticed him. Sunsets out on the sea had an entirely different quality to them.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Russian had proven to be more easy to manage than Corto had originally thought. Jack had told him of Rasputin's impulsiveness and blatant disregard for human life before they'd parted, and Corto had even had the pleasure of listening to the writer tell a completely different story to his officials to get a safe passage for the man. Brave and loyal, he'd said, a deserter who understood American values and only wished to uphold them. The funniest thing was, he wasn't far from the truth. Earning the madman’s loyalty hadn't been his plan, but he was certain he'd gotten it. And for what a cheap price too - he'd only needed some affection to be subdued. What worried Corto was the way they'd gotten to that point at all.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The intimacy, he hadn't expected. Rasputin had been coiled tightly for most of the short journey, poised like a frightened snake ready to strike. Corto could hardly blame the man, after all, he'd felt similarly after coming home from his first campaign. Trusting your fellow man after you've seen them take another's life, even if you share the experience, was hard. He wagered it was even harder for someone like Rasputin. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There had been signs, and Corto wasn't blind to them, but he'd figured they were just a symptom of loneliness. Rasputin looked like a profoundly lonely man. If he chose to steal glances at other men, or at himself, well, Corto wouldn't judge. He could even admit he enjoyed it, to a certain extent. He wasn't above a little vanity, and being desired by someone who's so clearly conflicted over it was amusing in its own way. In retrospect, he should've just kept to himself and not encouraged the unstable bastard. He'd gotten a taste of just how unpredictable the man could be that day in their cabin, when he'd held his palm like a drowning man and all but begged for kinship. He should have told him no plainly then, but he'd ran. And predictably, Rasputin had caught up to him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He hadn't expected the boldness either, although he should have. They'd kissed under the thick veil of opium and Corto had felt… Satisfaction. It had been different than the bittersweet kiss Wee-Lee had given him just hours before, a kiss that felt more like a goodbye than a promise. He'd yearned, for her, for this fleeting prospect of a happy life with a beautiful woman all young men yearned for - and she'd courteously accepted those feelings. Her eyes had seemed sad, like the eyes of a woman who'd grown accustomed to kissing as a parting gift. They'd made him want to hold her in his arms and whisper all the romantic poems he could think of, if they could please her for even a moment. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In Rasputin’s arms, there had been no space for poetry. Rasputin's eyes promised eternity of </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>, them, bodies entwined in endless satisfaction. Under the cover of smoke, Corto had almost believed it. It had been a moment of insanity, only worsened by Rasputin's insisting mouth, which had been more skilled than Corto had expected. When the man had told him he'd never been interested in women, Corto had assumed that'd meant… Was it possible Rasputin had had experience with other men? He knew the military was a place of many desperate men and he knew Russia had a more relaxed view on such relations but something in his mind balked at the idea.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The way Rasputin had reached out in the alleyway had only confused him more. He'd expected the Russian to go back to his frigid self after the opium had worn off, back to only stealing glances and angry posturing. But it seems like the older man is on a mission to keep him off balance and the aggressive way he'd kissed him had done exactly that. He'd made a decision and he was challenging Corto to make his own, but he wasn't certain what that decision entailed. That had been the biggest surprise to the boy. That for once in his life, he hadn't deliberated, only reacted. Maybe it had been a result of a spell cast on him by Shanghai herself, or maybe by some taunting spirit that wanted nothing more but to see him make a fool of himself. Kissing Rasputin once had been a fluke, but kissing him twice? That was frighteningly close to becoming a rule. Corto had nothing against intimacy with men, or even this man in particular, strange as he was, but he didn't feel like he was in control of how it happened and that unsettled him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He opened up the book, resolved to catch the last bit of sunlight and spend it productively. Thoughts about his companion would have to wait. Nothing positive would come out of giving too much space to Rasputin in his mind. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Like some devil, Rasputin chose that moment to curse loudly and Corto looked down at the deck over the rim of his book. Four British sailors surrounded the Russian who was doubled over and clutching onto his stomach. He spit out blood onto the ground and then he was on the ringleader, fingers poised to gouge out his eyes. Corto smiled at the display, secretly cheering on his friend. There was something endlessly thrilling about the way Rasputin lived his life and the boy couldn't say he was unaffected. Still, he stayed silent, even as the two men on each side dragged Rasputin off the leader and pushed him halfway over the rail. He could see his companion struggling, and then some shouting. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Should just throw you off you Russian scum! Want to eat our meals while you're cheating us out of our hard earned pay, huh?! Stop flailing!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck you! I'll slit your throat like a pig in your sleep for this!” Rasputin kicked one of the men holding him, earning a punch square in the jaw. Corto touched his own face absentmindedly, feeling out the still sore wounds. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“All of you Russian bastards are barbarians..”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What?? You're the one who attacked me, four on one! Scared you might end at the bottom of the sea instead?” Corto gripped the rail in front of him unconsciously as they delivered another blow to the madman, his copy of Utopia laid forgotten on the floor.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That's all you can think about isn't it, you dishonorable wretch? Your kind killed my brother, a good, God fearing man, simply for serving on a ship you didn't like! SS Hip Sang was a merchant ship and yet you murderers sank it without a second thought a year ago!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Corto really hoped Rasputin would hold his tongue for once. This ship was on the verge of drowning them both and he wasn't keen on dying because of a misplaced grudge. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rasputin laughed madly and the Spaniard couldn't see his face but he could imagine the hateful sneer, his nostrils flared, “your fool of a brother should've picked a better profession then! He probably deserved it and you know what? I hope the same happens to this metal coffin you call a ship!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was nothing but pained grunts and more cursing after that. Corto stared at the tragicomical scene below, wondering whether Rasputin would appreciate some shakespearean critique to his choice of battles. At some point he thought he caught a glint of a knife, but it was too hard to tell. Rasputin didn't pull out his gun at any point, and when their eyes met briefly he could see disappointment and accusations written plain on the other's face. Corto left for their cabin shortly thereafter, tired of pretending he was staring at a sun which had set a long time ago.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rasputin didn't return to their room until well into the night and Corto didn't seek him out, although his mind kept wandering back to him in between lines of text. He tried focusing on the book, but the words all bled into that last look his friend had given him. Corto didn't keep company with guilt, the world was simply too messy and uncontrollable for that, but its bitter hand found its way down his throat anyway, choking him more fiercely the harder he tried to push it away. It was ridiculous. He'd warned him, hadn't he? The first night, he'd warned him and Rasputin had still gone off and gotten himself into trouble anyway. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He must've dozed off, dreaming of green banks and outlandish conversation, of sailing with Amerigo Vespucci and crossing vast deserts, so the cool feel of metal against his temple startled him. The candle had been spent on the nightstand and he could only take a guess on the shape which had settled next to his bed. In his drowsiness, he could identify the object pressing against him as the muzzle of a gun, but he could scarcely make his body move against it. Something about the presence told him not to panic, and he settled down, waiting for something to happen.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“... I should.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The familiar rough tone calmed him instantly.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Rasputin? What are you doing?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut up. I should empty my bullets into your head for what you did.” Rasputin’s voice was leveled, but Corto could hear a dangerous edge to it. He pressed the gun more firmly against him. Corto's body kicked into gear, adrenaline pumping despite the confusing calmness his brain was still feeling.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“... Why didn't you shoot? I've warned-”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The safety clicked and Corto's sentence died in his throat. Maybe he'd overestimated the Russian’s affections. He prepared himself to fight, but Rasputin pulled the gun away before anything could happen. He heard an angry sigh, and then Rasputin mumbled a ‘move over’ and that was all the warning Corto got before the man collapsed on top of him, boneless. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You speak and I'll reconsider this mercy.” Rasputin’s warm breath on his neck did a funny thing to his heart and Corto repositioned himself underneath so the man wouldn't feel it. The Russian grunted in pain, but complied, laying down on his side so that he was face to face with Corto. The boy thanked the blackness of the room for saving some of his dignity. They stilled like that, carefully keeping away as much as the small cabin bed allowed. Corto could hear a slight wheeze in the way Rasputin breathed, a painful hitch to any time he moved, yet he refused to get any closer. Corto wished that he could inspect the injuries but he doubted the man would let him. Not yet. This was Rasputin's way of giving him another chance and asserting where they stood. Corto surprised himself with how much he didn't want to let the other man down.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He reached out, careful not to aggravate any wounds, and he sneaked his hands around the man's waist slowly. Rasputin's breathing stuttered briefly, but he didn't stop him, letting the boy pull him into an awkward embrace. The bed was cramped and the Russian was as rigid as ever, not moving a muscle to adjust. Corto smiled in the dark, recognizing this for what it was - Rasputin was moping and he wanted Corto to woo him. He played along, kissing the top of his messy hair and stroking his back lightly, something comforting his mother had often done for him when he was sick. Rasputin slowly relaxed in his arms, moving his own to hold Corto's hips in a possessive, almost painful grip. He was muttering something into Corto's chest, some of it Russian curses, some sounding too close to petnames. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You're my partner, got it?” Rasputin mumbled as Corto pulled his head up for a kiss. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Always, compañero.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop speaking your nonsense language and answer the damn question.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Corto laughed, making a mental note to never teach Spanish to Rasputin. This was way more entertaining.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I'm yours, Ras.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Corto delighted at the way the man tensed against him, confirming his theory about the nickname. As they kissed for the third time, Corto thought about rules and decided - this one wouldn't be so bad. It was not so wrong to indulge every once in a while and his friend clearly needed it, if the tremble in his body and his eager tongue were anything to go by. He knew this wouldn't last and it didn't bother him. Corto closed his eyes, satisfied, and for once he didn't dream of being somewhere else. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Feels good to write a chapter with absolutely zero need for historical research for once! Alternative title for this is Am I Writing An Anime Romcom Actually?!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span><em>March 18th, East China Sea, less than a day away from Hong Kong</em> </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rasputin snapped awake in a dark room with no snow and no stench of death and he was not dying. He was not dying, but he was bleeding. He didn't know how he knew that he was bleeding, his synapses were still struggling with the abrupt shift into wakefulness, but when he pressed his hand onto the side of his stomach his palm came away wet and smelling of copper. Somewhere in his foggy mind he could identify several pictures of a fight, but they seemed distant. Whatever had put him in this situation had wringed him dry and left him exhausted and slowly bleeding to death. Rasputin wanted to focus on that, but his position on whatever bed he'd crashed on was too comfortable, too warm, that he felt incapable of anything more than a feeble groan. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The bed moved. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“...Rasputin?” The bed spoke, groggy and low from sleep. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Russian flailed and fell out of the cot gracelessly, completely sober now. He landed on the open wound, and about a dozen more bruises, with a dull thud. Body ablaze with pain, he pitifully wished for his nightmares back. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ugh. Fuck…” He was not going to cry. Rasputin bit his lip hard, refusing to weep like a newborn babe. His eyes stung traitorously anyway.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Christ, is that blood?” Corto's voice sounded higher now, for it always had to be the blasted boy, always present when Rasputin was out of sorts, like some kind of sick angelic witness. Rasputin hated how much he wanted to just crawl back into bed with that voice and cling to it until he drifted back into sleep. He saw the Spaniard sitting up slowly, sleep still clinging to him as he grasped around for a candle to light up their small living space. Rasputin secretly prayed he'd never find it, feeling too pathetic and weak now to face the boy in clear light. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He shook his head, immediately ridding himself of such thoughts. The damned boy was the reason why he was in so much pain in the first place. He watched him move around the room carefully, and once the low glow of the flame lit up his face, they locked eyes. Corto's eyes haunted him, always, but the casual cruelty and boredom he'd watched him with on the deck - for it couldn't have been described as anything but cruelty, the way he'd stayed in place as the bastards took their pointless revenge - that had terrified him. He'd wanted to kill him, wanted to carve out his bored eyes from his skull, wanted to mutilate every inch of that uncaring body that didn't move an muscle to help him. Thinking about vengeance had been the only thing that had kept him conscious as they beat him, blow upon blow turning the edges of his vision red until he'd finally passed out, just as Corto's back had turned to him and he'd seen the boy leaving. When he awoke later, he was chilled to the bone and his body was pulsing with white hot pain. He'd sat there then, for a minute, contemplating. Rasputin wasn't one for pointless introspection, preferring to let his impulses drive him, but he took a moment to think about his gun, which he could've used easily to deal with the idiots who'd assaulted him. It would've been so easy to squeeze the trigger and spill their brains and blood onto this ugly cold deck. Rasputin was growing painfully aware of the fact he'd abstained only to please Corto. If he'd killed them, no doubt he would've been thrown off this ship and the boy would've followed suit. He hadn't fired, against his nature, to protect a cruel boy who had kissed him twice and still promised nothing. Rasputin had taken his gun in hand then, fully prepared to put his world back into place. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, he'd fallen right back into Corto's arms the moment the boy spoke to him, like some kind of lovesick dog. He could scarcely remember what he'd said to him before he'd fallen asleep, exhausted, but a creeping sense of embarrassment and warmth told him it hadn't been anything good. Now, Corto's eyes only looked sad and worried and Rasputin decided that that was infinitely worse. Casual cruelty and violence, he understood, his existence thrived on it and his world until just recently gave him nothing less. He didn't know how to exist in a world where Corto looked at him with those eyes. His anger from last night had left him hollow and cold and he feared the need in those eyes to make him whole again. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop gawking at me and get me something to close this wound you idiot!” Rasputin resorted to spite, too tired for anything else. Corto nodded simply, as if expecting this, and turned away to look for some gauze and bandages. Rasputin dragged himself to bed, his own now, and laid in it with a grunt. It was cold and it still smelled faintly of alcohol, a stark difference to Corto's warm and inviting beddings that somehow always smelled of seasalt. He refused to admit he missed the latter.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“This is going to sting.” Rasputin blinked dumbly at the voice, now impossibly close. Corto had come back, medical supplies in hand, and Rasputin had completely missed it, thinking about the boy's bed instead. His face heated up and he prayed to whatever uncaring God that Corto could not see it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Just get it over with, dammit.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Spaniard complied soundlessly, peeling away the ruined undershirt to expose the still bleeding wound on his belly. The air in their cabin was freezing and Rasputin shivered at the contact. Corto laid one maddeningly warm hand on the strip of skin just above his hip to stop him from moving and it felt like he was branding him like cattle. Then he got to work.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rasputin drifted in and out from sleep while Corto dressed the wound, grunting in an appropriate and masculine fashion whenever the boy prodded something he wasn't supposed to, a sermon of Russian curses on his tongue. Corto ignored him for the most part, replying to his nonsense with teasing words or absentminded sighs. Rasputin settled on watching him when he could keep his eyes open, noting the way Corto deftly went about his business. He had mentioned tending to the wounded only a few years ago, hadn't he? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Your hands…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Corto looked up briefly, humming in question.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“...They're soft.” That wasn't what he'd meant to say at all. He startled them both with his strange observance, Corto completely stopping with what he was doing. The boy looked at him inquisitively, as if to tell if the man was pranking him somehow. Rasputin opened his mouth to play it off as such, but his throat wouldn't work, feeling incredibly dry. Corto smiled one of those close mouthed knowing smiles and went back to bandaging his injury. Rasputin felt adrift.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You'll need a proper doctor to look you over once we dock in Hong Kong. I've stopped the bleeding for now.” Corto said and Rasputin sighed in relief. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Finally. I pity the poor sods whose wounds you patched up if it always took this long-”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Let me check the rest of you.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And then Corto rode up his shirt even higher. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rasputin gasped, arms immediately coming up to protect his exposed torso, but Corto had expected it and he just held him down. They struggled like that for a while, the Russian snarling and biting against the strong arms that didn't let him move an inch. He wondered, ridiculously, where the boy got his strength from, for it certainly wasn't from the slop they ate on this ship. The small bed creaked under them, its wailing drowning out the hissing and pained moans that came whenever Corto put pressure on his battered body. He searched the boy's face in panic while they wrestled and he could only see the same worry and reproach he'd worn this entire time. Hadn't he done enough, hadn't that one wound been enough to ease his guilt - because it must be guilt driving him to do this kindness for him? Why couldn't Corto satisfy himself with closing only one blasted bleeding wound in this universe?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ras, you need to stop moving, you'll only worsen your wounds.“</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rasputin loathed his unaffected tone of voice and he hated the idea of exposing his belly even more, something primal in his brain rejecting such an expression of submission before the boy. The nickname, which he knew would stick forever now, images of soft kisses inescapable, only enraged him further.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Get the fuck off of me!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I need to check the other injuries, please- ough!” Rasputin landed a solid blow in the still healing right side of his companion, and he let up briefly. For a few seconds, the only sound in their room was the ragged breathing and the rustling of clothes as Rasputin struggled his undershirt back on. Then Corto mumbled something and without a warning squeezed his hands </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard</span>
  </em>
  <span> on the Russian's bruised ribs. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Pain exploded everywhere. Rasputin could taste the searing hot agony that spread through his body lighting quick and he wailed, unrestrained. Corto didn't pull away at the sound and he held him there, screaming, until Rasputin was begging, cursing, pleading with him, with God, with whoever the fuck was listening to make it stop. His ribs felt like they were mere seconds away from breaking and piercing his organs and then a knife wound would be the last of his worries. Corto let up as quickly as he'd started, immediately grabbing behind himself for some sort of cream, but Rasputin couldn't see anything. His eyes had clamped shut and he couldn't focus on anything but the constant pangs of pain and his own labored breathing. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You really don't make anything easy, do you?” Corto said, sounding slightly winded himself. He still sounded so fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>worried</span>
  </em>
  <span>, like he hadn't just forced Rasputin’s soul out of his body a second earlier. Rasputin didn't even attempt to move as the boy rubbed cold medicinal cream into his bruises now, resigned to his fate. Corto spread the cream slowly, with way too much tenderness, as if he was preparing his body for a ceremonial burial. Rasputin couldn't keep his breath even at the sensations, the hot and cold contrast making it hard to focus on anything else. His lower parts started stirring at it and he shifted in embarrassment.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I hate you, Corto Maltese.” Rasputin hissed through grit teeth and willed himself to mean it. Corto's soft laugh told him it wasn't the most convincing lie he'd been told. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“But am I still your partner?” The boy said in a teasing voice, accentuating the ‘partner’ by rubbing little circles around the bruises he'd been abusing mere moments before. Rasputin knew he'd only done it to show him what a bad state he was in, but it'd still been humiliating. Corto had a spiteful streak a mile wide and he thought it might match his own. He grinned despite himself and covered his face to hide it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“... For now.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Corto echoed his ‘for now’ lightly, satisfied. He removed his hands from his body, the job finished, and Rasputin bit down on a small sound of protest that threatened to escape his lips at the loss. He pulled his shirt down, careful not to aggravate anything and he waited. It took Corto exactly 23 seconds to clean up and turn back to him, an excruciatingly long time which Rasputin spent watching the candlelight flicker to some phantom draft. He was bored and sore and functioning on too little sleep and his brain worked as good as it did on opium.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You seem comfortable there, Rasputin.” A beat. Rasputin stayed silent. He was familiar with this game. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I'll leave you to it then.” Corto said and he stayed rooted in place next to his bed. Rasputin wanted to smile at this farce his friend put on for his own benefit. Corto </span>
  <em>
    <span>still</span>
  </em>
  <span> couldn't initiate, too paralyzed by whatever pretenses of control and propriety he wanted to cling to, and it entertained the Russian as much as it frustrated him. He wondered how many more days or months or god forbid, years he would have to grasp at the sailor to receive his affection. Laying in his bed that smelled like a drunkard’s final resting place and feeling the medicinal cream working its way into his skin, blurring the sharp edges of the full body pain into something blunt and manageable, he thought he was willing to indulge him for a little longer. Rasputin was a being of impulses and rage, but he could be patient, for a worthy bounty.</span>
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<p>
  <span>“You're too loud.” Rasputin said to his friend as he pulled him into bed with him. Corto allowed himself to be manhandled, the wrinkle in his nose the only sign he disliked his predicament. The Spaniard had clearly wanted to lure Rasputin back into his own, much cleaner, cot. The Russian enjoyed his discomfort, thinking it an apt punishment for all he'd put him through up until now. Even more, he knew Corto would smell like him come morning and that thought truly made him smile. The boy settled on sleeping half on top of him, his right arm hugging him close just under his wound. Rasputin, warm again, soon followed suit. His last conscious thought before sleep took him was that Corto snored.</span>
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